


Elections

by kalirush



Series: Ten Years On [4]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Epistolary, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Political Campaigns, Political Expediency, Political Parties, Politics, Requited Love, So Much Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-07 18:57:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/434305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalirush/pseuds/kalirush
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grumman made the country a democracy before Roy made it to the top. Now, he and his team have an election to win, and Roy and Riza have to figure out where this leaves them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been kicking around the idea of doing something else in my _Homecoming_ verse for a while; something more plotty and more political. When someone gave me the delightfully broad prompt "Future story, how far in the future is up to the author. All I ask is that Roy and Riza are together. Maybe a little action/adventure if you’d like. Author’s choice if they’re both in the military still or if someone has retired" I knew that this was the story I wanted to write.
> 
> This story takes place in 1922, seven years after the Promised Day (and five years before _Homecoming_ )
> 
> Thanks to mebh for editing and encouragement!

# DEMOCRACY!!

May 8th, 1922

CENTRAL CITY- Amestris changed forever today as Fuhrer Grumman made the announcement that he intends to end the absolute authority of the Fuhrer’s office. “During times of war, Amestris needed the firm hand of the Fuhrer to guide her,” Grumman said to a crowd outside the Fuhrer’s Palace this morning. “But today, Amestris is at peace. It is time to return control of the government to her people.”

Fuhrer Grumman declared that the office of the Fuhrer will remain, but most civil matters will be turned over to Parliament. In addition, he announced the creation of a civil police force, to replace the military police in most functions. Training of the police force will begin later this year, and he expects to be able to turn police functions over to them by the end of 1923.

The Fuhrer also announced that special elections will be held at the end of the year to choose a new Prime Minister and new representatives in most districts. “As the role of Parliament changes, we must make decisions about who is best suited to take up those new responsibilities,” he declared. 

Sources in the Fuhrer’s office say that this is a decision that has been coming ever since the attempted coup in 1915 and the assassination of Fuhrer Bradley. According to an unnamed staffer, “Fuhrer Grumman has wanted to return Amestris to a democracy since the beginning, but he’s waited to try to ensure a smooth and peaceful transition.”

Not everyone is pleased with the decision, however. Sources inside Central HQ say that many high-ranking members of the military disagree with the Fuhrer, although for now they seem content to do it privately.


	2. Chapter 2

Roy stood in front of Fuhrer Grumman’s desk, his back straight and his hair combed to gleaming. “I have a request, sir,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a crisp, white envelope. That was one piece of paperwork she hadn’t had to bully him into signing, Riza reflected drily.

Grumman leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I knew this was coming. I assume this goes for you as well, Captain?”

Riza pulled out her own envelope. “Yes, sir,” she said.

Grumman grinned. “Well, I won’t try to talk you two out of it. Besides, I’m pretty sure Olivier’s got her eye on this chair next, and I wouldn’t want to see anyone try to get in her way.”

Roy smiled. “She’s got larger balls than the both of us put together, sir,” he said.

“There’s no need to be vulgar, General,” Riza said, letting her disapproval creep into her voice.

Roy relaxed, and put the letter on Grumman’s desk. He reached up and began unfastening the bars from his shoulders. “You’ll be wanting these,” he said. “And this.” He laid his service weapon on the desk. 

Riza had insisted that he carry it- he had had to give up wearing his gloves in uniform after the demilitarization of the State Alchemist program, and she hadn’t wanted him to go unarmed. That was all done with now, though. Roy could start wearing sparkcloth again if he wanted to, she supposed. “Mine as well, sir,” she said, adding her own letter, insignia and weapon to the pile. 

Grumman eyed the pile on his desk. “I suppose I accept your resignations,” he said. He reached out and took Riza’s hand in his, shaking it firmly. “Good luck to you in civilian life,” he said. He turned to Roy. “Now that you’ll have some time on your hands, I hope you’ll consider that suggestion I made, way back when.”

“Absolutely, sir,” Roy said, nodding. 

Grumman grinned, and clapped him on the back. “Now, get out of here!” he said. “I don’t need a pair of civilians loitering around my office.”

Riza stepped out into the hallway, feeling naked. She wasn’t unarmed- her service weapon had never been the only weapon she carried- but her shoulders were achingly bare. She was 32, and she had been in the uniform nearly half her life. Roy looked at her, his eyes dark. His hands went to his collar. “No need to wear this anymore,” he said, and began stripping off his jacket.

It was as though he had anticipated that feeling of nakedness, and was saying: _if we’re going to do it, at least we’re doing it together._ Smiling slightly, she undid the buttons of her own jacket. He reached out an arm, offering to carry it for her. She tucked it neatly over her left arm instead. “Where to now, sir?” she asked. “I suppose you’ll need me to drive you home, unless you prefer to walk.” She’d driven that morning, as she usually did.

“Not sir,” Roy said, looking at her sideways. “Not anymore. What should we call each other now?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Riza said, barely biting down on the habitual _sir_. “Mr. Mustang,” she said instead, almost experimentally.

Roy winced. “Elizabeth,” he offered, smiling wickedly.

“Surely not,” Riza said, raising an eyebrow.

“Riza then,” he said. “And Roy.” 

Riza considered him. “I suppose we could try that,” she said. “Provided that you don’t overdo it.”

“I wouldn’t want you to think I was fresh,” he said.

“I’m well aware of your proclivities,” she said. “Roy,” she added as an afterthought. It felt _wrong_ to call him by his first name, after all these years.

They were approaching the exit, and Riza suddenly wondered whether she would ever walk down this hallway again. “Riza,” Roy said, suddenly, and then seemed to think better of it, too. “Hawkeye,” he said instead. He stopped walking, looking intensely at her. His voice went gruff. “Hawkeye, when we started on this path, you promised to follow me into hell if you had to.” _And you did_ , he didn’t have to say. They’d been through incredible and awful things together, but she’d never left him. She never would. How could she? 

He cleared his throat. “I’d like to ask you to walk beside me now, instead,” he said. He looked helplessly at her, his face open in a way that his words weren’t.

Riza froze. She knew what he meant. She always knew what he meant. She opened her mouth to answer, but her throat was dry. Her head felt light and her heart was pounding. But she was a sniper, and she knew how to function even when adrenaline was playing havoc with her body. She stepped forward, closing the distance between them. Then she leaned up and kissed him. 

It wasn’t a good kiss. He was too surprised to reciprocate much. Also, they were still inside HQ, and while kissing in the halls might have been exotically taboo under other circumstances, it was mostly a bit nerve-wracking in practice. Still, when he pulled back, he looked at her as though she’d just solved Boehme’s Conundrum. “That was an excellent answer,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Brief and to the point. Exactly the sort of efficiency I’ve come to expect from you, Hawkeye.”

“Of course,” she said. “We’ll want to discuss the details later, naturally.” It took everything she had to keep her voice even and her body language cool.

“Over dinner, perhaps?” Roy suggested, his voice like velvet. “Eight o’clock? I can pick you up, for a change.”

“That sounds acceptable, Roy,” she said, and winced. “Mr. Mustang? Mustang?”

“We can figure that out later,” he suggested.

They walked out of HQ side by side.

\--------------------------

God help him, she was wearing green silk. 

If there was a god, which there wasn’t; at least not one Roy would be willing to elicit help from. Which meant that Roy was entirely on his own, at a table with the Captain- with Riza- with Hawkeye? And she was wearing green silk that clung to her body like a glove, and he had no doubt that she was carrying a gun _somewhere_ but he had no idea where. She had also probably accepted his marriage proposal earlier. He would know for certain if only he had been able to work up the guts to say it all out loud. But she’d _kissed him_ , and that was a step in the right direction no matter what else it meant. Riza in green silk across from him in a nice restaurant was also a good sign. 

He felt like he was sixteen again. He also felt like an idiot. The two sensations were strangely connected.

Riza sighed. “Mustang?” she said. She seemed to be trying different names on for size, looking for something that fit her tongue the way _sir_ or _General_ used to. The way _Captain_ used to fit his tongue, and _Lieutenant_ before that.

“No, we should really go with Roy,” he insisted. “It’s the best option. _Mustang_ makes me worried that you’re about to scold me, and _Mr. Mustang_ sounds like we’ve never met. Civilians do call each other by first names; it isn’t inappropriate.” He paused. “Particularly if we intend to marry each other.” There. He’d said it.

She nodded. “Roy, then. And you’ll call me Riza.” She fixed him with a stern look.

“Riza,” he echoed. “Yes.” He was suggesting that she change her last name anyway, he reflected. He couldn’t call her “Hawkeye” indefinitely.

She looked down. “We should discuss the timing of the wedding. We have an election to worry about, after all.”

“We could do something quick,” Roy suggested. “Simple.” It was an appealing suggestion. He desperately wanted to be _done_ with waiting. No ceremony could ever matter as much as the commitment they’d been living for years, anyhow.

She shook her head. “We need it to be public,” she said, tilting her head thoughtfully. “We should be as open about our relationship as possible, and as above-board.” She paused. “You’re used to navigating the military hierarchy, but now you’re going to be a politician. A politician needs a wife.”

Roy smiled so that he wouldn’t snarl. “I suppose so,” he said, a little bitterly. There were times when it chafed, twisting his whole life to fit the mission.

Riza shrugged. “Particularly with your reputation,” she said. “Voters won’t like a candidate who can’t commit. Your skirt-chasing was useful for making the brass dismiss you, but we need to make you look reliable now. Showing that you’re committed to one woman will help with that.”

She was entirely right, of course. “And having a large wedding will emphasize that,” he said, sighing.

She nodded. “It probably won’t be until after the election, but we definitely can’t just have a quick civil ceremony. People will assume that I’m carrying your love child.” Her eyes sparkled, and the corner of her mouth quirked up just a little.

Roy laughed. “We wouldn’t want people to get the wrong idea,” he said, smirking.

“We should avoid scandal,” she said, drily. 

“But you feel that we should make our relationship public?” he clarified.

“It would be politically useful,” she said.

“I see,” Roy said. He stood up, tapping his nearly-empty wine glass with his fork. “Excuse me!” he said, addressing the restaurant. “Your attention, please!”

Slowly, conversation ground to a halt as the other diners turned to stare at him. Riza, Roy noted, had flushed a becoming shade of pink. _Well_ , he thought, _that’s what she gets for insisting on public._ “Hello,” Roy said, smiling his most charming smile. “I have a question to ask, and I was hoping you might lend me a little encouragement.” He turned and dropped to a knee. The crowd gasped and _awww_ ed a bit. “Riza Hawkeye,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I haven’t been free to say this until today, but I am now. I’ve loved you since I was sixteen years old. No other woman has ever truly mattered to me, and none ever will. Marry me.”

She looked down at him with an expression that might have passed for _stunned_ or _pleased_ to someone who knew Riza Hawkeye less well. To Roy, it read at best _bemused_ , but possibly _homicidally irritated_. “Please?” Roy added, starting to panic in her continued silence. 

Her expression shifted, and this one Roy knew. Intimately. _Oh, you think you’re clever, do you?_ “I already knew,” she said. “You’re not exactly _subtle_ , Roy Mustang.” Which, of course, could also be taken as a comment on the current situation. Riza stood and held out a hand. He took it and let her pull him to standing. “Yes,” she said, simply. Then she kissed him. The room exploded into applause, but Roy barely heard it.

It went much better this time. He managed to kiss her back at least, which was a marked improvement on last time’s dismal showing. She pressed into his arms, all warm flesh and silk and the smell of _Riza_. “How was that?” he whispered, as she finally pulled away. 

“Very effective,” she whispered back.

Later, walking out of the restaurant, Roy caught her by the hand. “Riza,” he said.

“Roy?” she asked, looking up. She seemed to be getting more comfortable with his first name now.

He cleared his throat. “A politician may need a wife,” he said. “But I need you.”

Her eyes softened. “I know,” she said.


	3. Chapter 3

May 16th, 1922

CENTRAL CITY- Major General Roy Mustang announced his retirement from the military today. General Mustang is perhaps most well-known for his service as a State Alchemist in the Ishvalan Conflict in the late aughts, and for being a central figure in the Eclipse Riots and the end of the Bradley administration. A staunch Bradley supporter, many thought that Mustang might take the Fuhrership after the late Fuhrer’s assassination. He did not contest Fuhrer Grumman’s ascension to office, however. According to a statement released by the Fuhrer’s office, “General Mustang has served the Amestrian people faithfully for many years. We are sorry to see him leave, but wish him fortune in his endeavours in civilian life.”

Until 1918, when the State Alchemist program was demilitarized, Mustang was known as the Flame Alchemist. However, Mustang gave up his watch and remained in the military rather, despite the fact that other prominent alchemists- Strong-Arm and Freezing notable among them- chose to remain State Alchemists, giving up their military rank. Mustang’s exit now from the military comes as a surprise. Many Central City pundits suspect that, given the recent announcements about democratization, Mustang intends to run for public office. Mustang himself has made no statement about his future intentions and has not been available for comment.

\----------------------

DP: This is Den Peters on CKEW, and we’re back with Major Benjamin Humber and political analyst Dr. Floyd Riddick. Gentlemen- what do you think of this announcement?

BH: I’m not sure what there is to say about it, honestly. You have to remember that General Mustang has been in the military since he was a teenager. He became a State Alchemist at the age of twenty- the youngest on record, at least until Fullmetal. I think he just wants to get on with his life.

FR: You’re being naive. Mustang has always been a ladder-climber, and it’s a thinly-veiled secret how high he wants to climb. The only reason he didn’t go after the Fuhrer’s office after Bradley died is because Grumman out-maneuvered him. He wouldn’t make this move unless he had something planned.

BH: And you’re not being fair. General Mustang served under Fuhrer Grumman in East City for years, and by all accounts, they’re friends. He might have been angling for the office, but he’s been loyal to the Fuhrer. 

FR: That’s beside the point. He has no life outside his job, unless you count philandering. If he’s left the military, it’s because he thinks he’s going to climb higher somewhere else. It’s no mistake that this comes on the heels of the election announcement last week. Obviously, he’s angling for parliament.

BH: So what if he is? He was a good leader in the military. He’d probably make a good leader in the new government, too. His people are notoriously loyal to him; there has to be a reason for that.

FR: People were loyal to Father Cornello, too-

BH: You can’t honestly be comparing General Mustang to that lunatic!

FR: Mustang’s not a lunatic, I’ll give you that. He’s smart and ambitious. If he doesn’t announce a run for parliament by August, I’ll come back on the air and eat my hat for all the listeners.

BH: If he runs for Central’s MP, I might vote for him. 

FR: I think he’s dangerously charismatic and politically volatile. His political history paints him as an extreme conservative, but his involvement in the Ishvalan Accords makes him look like a liberal. Until I know who Roy Mustang is, _I’ll_ never vote for him.

DP: Gentlemen, we have to break now for a short commercial interruption. After the hour, we’ll return for your thoughts on the Fuhrer’s latest proposals for the October elections. This is Den Peters for Thoughts on the Nation, and you’re tuned in to CKEW.

\-----------------------

ON SOCIETY

All the little birds are a-twitter about a scene between one retired ex-general who we’ll only call R.M. and his equally-retired ex-subordinate, R.H. They were spotted together at a popular Central eatery last week. The birdies tell us that R.M. got on one knee and proposed! The answer was yes, so everyone’s hearts are intact- except for all the girls who never got their chance with Central’s most eligible (ex?) bachelor. Are wedding bells really in R.M.’s future? Maybe, but either way, R.H. has her hands full.


	4. Chapter 4

The taste of Roy Mustang’s lips was electric, like sparks across her tongue. So was the smell of his skin, and the feel of his silky black hair under her fingertips. His lips trailed down her neck and into the hollow of her throat, and she buried her nose in his hair. She let her hands wander down the warm cotton of his shirt-

There was a discreet cough, and she and Roy retreated hastily to opposite ends of the couch. 

Gracia entered the room and shot them both a bemused smile before beginning to set out refreshments. “Do you need a hand?” Riza offered, only a little awkwardly. 

“Oh, no,” Gracia said, her eyes twinkling, “I’ve got it. You just go back to what you were doing.” With a grin, she swept back into the kitchen.

“I think she’s on to us,” Roy said, his voice low as he closed the distance between them. 

“I suspect she approves,” Riza said, as he took her hand in his. 

She felt silly, making out with Roy on the couch like a teenager. Still, it wasn’t as though either of them had had the chance for that when they had actually been teenagers. Roy had been consumed by alchemy, and Riza had been desperately trying to take care of her increasingly sick father. And then her father died, and then there was the war. And since then, nothing had mattered as much as the mission. She had given that part of herself up for the sake of it. But now, the mission no longer required that she and Roy deny themselves. She reached out with both hands and pulled him close. 

This time, it was a knocking on the front door that pulled them apart. 

Havoc was the first to arrive, leaning on his cane. Rebecca followed him, their baby on her hip. “Riza!” she squealed, and shoved the baby into Roy’s somewhat bewildered arms before hugging Riza enthusiastically. The others trickled in after- Breda and Fuery and a nervous-looking Falman. Sciezka, Ross, Brosh. Armstrong, with a large bouquet of flowers for Gracia. Madame Christmas was the last to arrive, sailing into the room with a bow-wrapped bottle of brandy and Vanessa at her side. She settled herself into a chair and stared expectantly at Roy.

With a wry smile, Roy stood. The friendly chatter in the room died down. “I suppose you all know why I asked you to come,” he said, a little awkwardly. “As you all know, Hawkeye and I officially resigned from the military yesterday. It’s time for us to take the next step.” He paused. “I can’t ask any of you to give up your careers to follow me into the civil government. Anything that any of you ever owed me, you’ve repaid a thousand times over. But I will need people that I can trust, and I’d be honored to have any of you on my team again.”

“I think the store can spare me,” Havoc drawled. “Besides, Becky’s been bored.”

“You’re not going to need any weapons-running this time, though, are you?” Rebecca said, grinning. “Darn. Me and Ross were so _good_ at it.”

Ross looked up. “Ah-” she said, awkwardly. “I don’t think I’d make a good politician, General.” She stopped, flustered. “I mean... Mr. Mustang?”

“Roy,” he said. “All of you have earned that right. And as for the other- we’ll need to have allies in the military. Putting power into the hands of the civil government is going to be hard enough without good people on the other side of the fence. If you’re staying in, then we can use that.”

“Sir?” Fuery spoke up, his face flushing red. “I’m staying in, too. If you can do without me. It’s just- the military has the best equipment, sir, and I don’t think you’ll need a comms officer anymore.”

“I might consult with you in your off hours,” Roy warned him, smiling. Riza knew that he was disappointed; he would have wanted to have Fuery along. But if Fuery wanted to stay in the military, Roy wouldn’t try to talk him out of it.

Breda leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m with you, sir,” he said, grinning. “I’ve been waiting years to tell the military to go to hell.” 

Falman ran a hand through his hair nervously. “I’m still serving under General Armstrong, sir,” he said. “She hasn’t released me.”

Roy nodded. “There’s every probability that General Armstrong will become the next Fuhrer. You’re a good man, Vato, and you may be the only person that the both of us trust. We’ll need that.”

Sciezka blushed and allowed that she’d like to join Roy’s office if she’d have him. Brosh decided to stay with Ross. No surprise- the poor boy had carried a torch for her for years, even knowing that she didn’t play for his team (so to speak). Armstrong assured Roy that he had his support, but he intended to remain in the ranks of the State Alchemists.

When they were all accounted for, Madame Christmas _humphed_. “A politician doesn’t need a mother like me,” she said. “We’d better carry on as we’ve been. You know that the girls and I will back you however you need it, Roy-boy.”

Roy nodded. “Thank you all,” he said, and then he looked down, shyly. Shy didn’t suit him, Riza thought. "I have one more announcement,” he added. “Yesterday, I asked Riza to marry me. She said yes.”

The room erupted into noise and questions and people laughing and hugging them and patting them on the back. _About time_ was the main sentiment, which seemed a bit unfair to Riza; Roy had asked her at almost the first possible moment, after all. Armstrong burst into tears and started declaiming poetry about the beauty of love, but that was only to be expected.

Later, after everyone had gone, Gracia cornered the two of them. “Maes would have been so happy for you,” she told them, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. “He always wished...”

“He was such a romantic,” Roy said. “Being married to you made him so happy, and he wanted everyone else to have that same happiness.” It was a kind thing to say, Riza thought. Roy was many things, but he so rarely had the luxury of being _kind_. 

He turned to Riza. “I suppose I should say my goodbyes,” he said, with just a touch of self-mockery in his voice. He didn’t want to leave her, she knew. They were in the public eye now, though- or would be soon- and they couldn’t risk being caught in improprieties. It was a bit like still being caught by the fraternization laws- except that they were allowed _something_. Touches and promises and making out on the couch. This had to be better.

“Good night, Roy,” Gracia said. “Drive safely.” She embraced Roy, and then retreated to the kitchen, a wistful look in her eye. 

Riza smiled and stepped forward. “I will be very put out if you don’t get home safely,” she said, sternly.

“Well,” he said, “Since you’ve given me my marching orders, I suppose I have no choice in the matter.”

She leaned up and curled a hand around the back of his neck, nuzzling his cheek. “Good,” she whispered, and nipped his earlobe with her teeth, pressing herself close to him.

He groaned. “If you start that,” he said, hoarsely, “I’m going to be a very distracted driver.” He pulled away, and then leaned down and kissed her solidly on the mouth. “Good night,” he said, softly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he was gone. Gracia came back in the room. “It’s going to be a long wait for the wedding, isn’t it?” she said, with what looked suspiciously like a smirk.

Riza smiled. “We’ll work something out,” she said.

\------------------------------

The advantage to putting off the wedding was that he could pretend it wasn’t going to happen. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to marry Riza; that had been established so long ago that it barely occurred to him to consider it a question. But the idea of _getting_ married, of holding a wedding and standing in front of a judge and everyone they knew- that made him reflexively want to run for the hills. His preferred way of dealing with the problem would have been to walk into a court tomorrow and marry Riza with absolutely no pomp. Given that that wasn’t an option, he supposed this was the next best thing: spending his time trying to become the properly-elected civil leader of Amestris, and hoping that his eventual wedding would take care of itself.

“The first problem is eligibility,” Breda said. “You have to hold an MP seat to run for Prime Minister in the general election. And since the Fuhrer has frozen all local elections until October, you can’t exactly run for Central’s seat now.”

Roy grinned. “We were aware of that, actually,” he said. “Riza, do you have the list of empty seats?”

She nodded. “Many of the smaller districts’ seats are sitting empty,” she explained. “With Parliament how it was, many of the rural districts have had uncontested or empty elections for the last several years. Technically, the Fuhrer can appoint an MP in those cases, but neither Bradley nor Grumman has ever bothered.” 

Roy waved a hand toward the folder in her arms. “But with a petition signed by a two-thirds majority of the residents of a district, an off-election appointment is automatic. Riza spent most of yesterday digging up a list of empty districts without residency requirements for MP’s.”

Breda grinned. “Well, that changes things. Help me look these over, Havo,” he said, and tossed half the file into Havoc’s lap. 

Between the four of them, they started sorting the files- likely, possible, and not-a-chance. They discussed things occasionally, but mostly they were quiet as they read and considered. Roy found himself watching Riza- the way her wrist curved and she turned a page; the color of her eyes in the light. It wasn’t that he had never watched her before. But it was different, now. Now, if he was caught, it didn’t matter. She was his to watch. His breath caught in his throat, and she looked up. Their eyes met, and the edges of her eyes crinkled in amusement. _You’re being foolish, sir_ , he could almost hear her saying. _Get back to work._ He shot her his best rakish grin, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

On the other side of the table, Breda starting laughing. 

Roy started. “What?” he said, defensively, before realizing that Breda was laughing at something in one of the files, and not at him at all. 

“Resembool,” Breda said, grinning. “Did you notice that Fullmetal’s hometown was on your list, Hawkeye?”

Riza nodded. “I agree,” she said. “I was hoping you’d think so.”

“Wait, what?” Havoc said. “Why are we talking about Fullmetal?”

“The seat for Resembool is one of the ones sitting open,” she explained. “It’s a good choice for Roy.”

“The boss is a boy from East,” Breda continued. “So Resembool isn’t completely foreign territory. And we have allies there.”

“Edward is well-respected by his neighbors,” Riza said, shrewdly. “Or so I’m given to understand. If we can recruit him, then he could make this much simpler than it might otherwise be. Isn’t he in Central at the moment?”

Havoc nodded. “He’s living in the University dorms right now,” he said. “But Winry is in Resembool.” 

Roy smiled. “We’ll talk to Edward,” he said. “That brat still owes me money.”

“It’s a good start,” Breda said. “If we can manage the appointment within the next six weeks, we’ll be in plenty of time to put together a campaign for PM. Although, you’ll really need to figure out which party is willing to back you.”

Roy shook his head. “We’ll come to that,” he said. There were only two real parties right now- the pro-Bradley Dragons and the DemPops (in reality neither democratic nor populist)- and neither of them would touch him with a ten-foot pole. “I do have some contacts in Parliament. And that’s part of what Madame Christmas is working on.”

Riza shook her head. “We’ll need to register your party affiliation before the general election,” she said. “We can leave you as an independent for the seat in Resembool if we have to, but an independent wouldn’t have a chance at Prime Minister. We’ll need support in Parliament.”

“Baby steps,” Roy said. “Let’s talk to Edward first. I promise I’ll find a party in time.”

“I have every faith,” Riza said, dryly.


	5. Chapter 5

May 15th, 1922

CENTRAL CITY - Fuhrer Grumman has officially announced that General Olivier Mira Armstrong will be his successor to the Fuhrer’s seat. “General Armstrong has had a long and distinguished career of military service,” he said in a press conference earlier today. “I have every confidence in her ability to lead Amestris through this time of change.”

For her part, General Armstrong was pleased with the new appointment, saying “I’m honored that Fuhrer Grumman intends to pass on the Fuhrership to me. I promise that when I take over the office- hopefully many years from now- I will do my best to serve the people of Amestris.”

General Armstrong has served as the commander of Fort Briggs for nearly twenty-five years, and is a member of the prestigious Armstrong family. She comes from a long history of   
military service, including her father, General Philip Gargantos Armstrong, and her brother, the Strong-Arm Alchemist. General Armstrong was also involved in the events surrounding the end of the Bradley regime. It was initially thought that she was behind the military coup and the assassination of Fuhrer Bradley, but it was later discovered that she was acting against the conspiracy of rogue members within the higher staff. 

General Armstrong hasn’t answered any questions regarding her position on October’s elections and the passing of civil authority to Parliament, but analysts expect her to take a more conservative stance.


	6. Chapter 6

They found Edward in the students’ lounge in the History Department. There were a number of students sitting around, absorbed in books and notes. Edward didn’t notice them as they arrived. Roy reached out and knocked on the door frame to get his attention. “Fullmetal,” he said. “How have you been?”

Edward’s head shot up, his face locked into a scowl. “What the hell are you doing here, Mustang?” he asked. “I’m busy. And that’s not my name anymore.” 

Roy sauntered into the room, ignoring the stares and whispers from Edward’s fellow students. “You owe me money,” he said. “I want my 520 cenz.”

Edward rolled his eyes and closed his book. “You are such a cheapskate, Mustang,” he said, breaking into a grin. 

The whispering reached a fever pitch, finally attracting Edward’s attention. He twisted around in his chair to face them. “Yeah, guys- this is Roy Mustang,” he said. “He’s kind of a jerk in real life, so stop staring at him like you want to pull out your autograph books. Now, if you want to be impressed by somebody, _that’s_ Riza Hawkeye. She can kick all our asses combined.” He grinned again.

“No argument from me,” Roy said, smiling. He could almost _feel_ Riza’s glare, without even looking at her. “Who are your friends, Edward?” 

Edward shrugged. “Students,” he answered, helpfully. He started pointing. “Mustang and Hawkeye, this is Frank- he does ancient Aerugian history, for all the use that is. That’s Len, who works on Ishval, which is why he’s staring like that. Yes, Len, he’s a signatory on the Ishvalan Accords. Stop drooling. And over there is Pollack, who’s a family law guy.” 

“Hello,” Roy said, with his most charming expression. “I’m afraid that Edward hasn’t got any manners, but you were probably aware of that. I’m pleased to meet you all. Might I borrow him for a moment? I’d like to discuss some things with him.”

Edward sighed. “Fine,” he said. “Let’s get coffee.” He put his papers into a cubby in the wall and then locked it with a key around his neck. “Hello, Captain Hawkeye,” he said politely, as he tucked the key away. “How are you doing?”

“I’m well,” Riza said, as they made their way out into the street. “Still adjusting to civilian life- you needn’t call me Captain anymore, you know.” She smiled slightly. “We’ve all got different names now.”

“I never thought you guys would retire,” Edward said, smiling back. “Still, the world changes, huh?”

Roy nodded. “To put it mildly,” he said. They sat down at a café across the street and ordered drinks. “The university suits you. Are you enjoying it?”

Edward scowled at him. “I’m in the middle of my candidacy exams right now, so what do you think? But the sooner I finish this, the sooner I can go back to Resembool. Speaking of which, what are you doing here?”

Roy smiled at him in that way that Riza knew he was picking a fight. “I told you,” he said. “You owe me money.”

Edward snorted. “Not unless you just became Fuhrer,” he said. “And last I heard, General Armstrong was next in line for that.” The drinks came, and they distributed them.

“It’s not my fault things happened out of order,” Roy said. “We democratized the country _before_ I made Fuhrer, so you’ll have to count ‘Prime Minister’ as equivalent.”

Edward gave him a calculating look. “You don’t qualify for a PM run this year,” he said. “You have to be a Member of Parliament before you can be the Prime Minister. And there are no elections between now and October.”

It seemed odd for Edward to be aware of that sort of detail; as a child, he’d always been so divorced from military politics. The mostly-completed doctorate in political history was evidence, though, that the world had changed as much for Edward as it had for her and Roy.

“Not if I try for an appointment to an empty seat,” Roy was saying, throwing out their plan like he was one-upping Edward.

Edward snorted. “I wondered if you’d think of that,” he said.

Riza tilted her head. “Resembool is one of the empty seats,” she said. 

Edward turned to her, leaning back against his chair. “Huh,” he said, his body language tense.

“That 520 cenz,” Roy said, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Help me get appointed in Resembool, and we’ll call it even.”

Edward’s face went stormy. “You don’t get to use my hometown as a stepping stone,” he said. “Resembool deserves to have an MP who gives a shit about it now that Parliament is going to actually mean something.”

“Edward,” Riza said, her tone just a little disapproving. Edward flinched. “For all of Roy’s many faults, he’s always been meticulous about keeping his promises.” She paused, trying to find the right words. “And he never leaves anyone behind,” she added.

Edward jumped up, his arms crossed, and walked away. Riza looked over at Roy. His face was wry. _I’ve left people behind,_ it said. _Too many. Too many._

Riza met his eyes, unflinching. _I know what you are,_ she thought. _I meant what I said._

Edward returned after a moment, his face hard. “Okay,” he said. “But you promise me that you’ll really be Resembool’s MP, first, before everything else.”

Roy nodded. “I promise,” he said. “I never intended anything different.”

“Alright,” Edward said. Then he grinned. “You don’t need to talk to me,” he said. “You need to talk to Granny Pinako. She knows everyone in the district, and they’re all afraid of her. I’m going home to visit Winry this weekend. You can come with me if you want.”

“Thank you, Edward,” Riza said.

\--------------------------------

Pinako Rockbell was snickering.

Roy took a deep breath, smiled, and waited. 

Winry rolled her eyes and glared. “Granny,” she protested, shifting in her chair to better accommodate her belly. It was funny, Roy thought, that he seemed to mainly cross paths with her when she was pregnant. The last time Roy had seen her had been Fullmetal’s wedding, and she’d been eight months gone then. 

“Calm down, Winry,” Pinako told her. “I’m entitled to a little amusement where I can get it.”

“I’m with the hag,” Edward said, grinning. “It’s hilarious. Wanna hold a barn dance, Mustang? We can put petitions next to the punch bowl.”

“Next to the pies, surely,” Riza murmured. “They’d get splashed if we put them next to the punch.”

Roy cocked his head. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “We couldn’t pay for it out of the campaign’s funds, of course- that might be considered buying votes.”

Pinako snorted. “You’re already out here pulling shenanigans to get into the general election,” she pointed out. “But a little impropriety with the money? We wouldn’t want that.”

Roy shrugged. “I need to be able to earn the voters’ trust,” he said. “We’re too used to corruption. We have to fight that.”

“That’s the least of your problems,” Pinako said, leaning over the table. “Do you know why there’s no MP for Resembool?” She leaned back, her eyes gone sharp. “Because it never mattered. No one around here thinks that’s going to change, and they don’t especially want it to, either. Things were mostly fine here under the Fuhrer.”

“Fine?” Edward protested, before Roy could respond. “What about Ishval? And Liore? What about the fucking bombings here in Resembool? That was all the Fuhrer. Was that _fine_?”

Pinako shot Edward a withering look. “I’m not an idiot, Ed,” she said. “ _I_ know that. But that’s the argument he’s going to have to make if he wants to get his petition signed.” She pulled her pipe out of her mouth and tapped the ashes into a little bowl.

Roy nodded. “We Amestrians aren’t used to real elections. We’re used to a government that tells us what to do. We’re used to being afraid to speak our minds openly. That’s changed a little since Grumman took office, but it’s going to have to change more if this is really going to work.” He laced his fingers together. “I guess Resembool can be a test case that way.”

Pinako looked him over carefully. She sniffed. “You sound like a politician already,” she said. “Fine. I’ll take you around to meet some people tomorrow. You’ll need to stay here for the night, though; there’s not really an inn anywhere nearby.” She grinned at him suddenly. “Am I making up one room, or two?”

Winry looked mortified. Edward choked. Riza smiled. “One,” she replied, coolly.

Edward’s face was a delight to behold. His eyes goggling, he turned quickly to stare at Riza, then back to Roy, then back to Riza. Then, as if in dawning comprehension, his face broke into a wide grin. “You son of a bitch!” he said, looking at Roy. “ _Finally_.” He turned to Hawkeye. “I don’t know whether to congratulate you or commiserate,” he said, cheerfully. “Damn! Really?”

“We intend to have the wedding after the election,” Riza said, calmly. “You can expect an invitation.”

And then Winry squealed and hugged a surprised Riza while Edward pounded Roy on the back. “I’ve glad to know I have your approval, Fullmetal,” Roy said, dryly.

Edward grinned. “Let me know if you need any advice,” he said, cocky.

Winry rolled her eyes and smacked him. “You’re so rude, Ed!” she complained.

“I meant on the _wedding_!” Edward protested, and then the argument was off and running.

Riza’s eyes, brown and cool and beautiful, caught his across the room. _I am going to be sharing a bed with Riza Hawkeye tonight_ , he suddenly thought. It made his mouth go dry.

\--------------------------------------

It was a risk, on some level. But Amestris wasn’t as prudish as, say, Drachma; Riza and Roy were both adults and professionals, and as long as they weren’t obvious, their private lives should stay private. And if staying in the same home as a young former subordinate, his wife, her grandmother, and their two-year-old son didn’t count as chaperoned as far as the public was concerned...

Except that they _weren’t_ chaperoned. They had been put into one of the rooms in the otherwise empty patient section of the house. Fullmetal, the little bastard, had taken the opportunity to point out the soundproofing between the residence areas and the patient rooms- so the baby didn’t disturb anyone, he said. And they’d all gone upstairs, and Roy and Riza had been left downstairs, and _goddammit_ , he was Roy Mustang. He wasn’t some blushing adolescent. Except, apparently, his body seemed to be under the impression that he was.

Riza set her case down on the old dresser next to the bed. She turned back to look at him, the curve of her cheek silhouetted against the lamp. “There’s no need to be so nervous,” she told him, her voice heavy with dry amusement. “I promise to be gentle.”

“It’s hardly my first time,” he answered. But the terrible thought suddenly occurred to Roy- was it hers? They’d never managed to get that far, back when she had been his alchemy master’s daughter. In the years that they’d been working together, he’d never known her to date. Admittedly, he’d never inquired very closely on that subject, either- but her back would have made any sort of casual romance complicated- “I suppose I should ask...” he said, trailing off uncertainly.

Riza raised the corner of her mouth. “Is it mine?” she asked. She shook her head. “No. Though I can’t say that I’m all that experienced. You’ll have to supply some of the practical knowledge.”

Roy nodded, feeling relief, mostly. Part of him, the territorial part, wanted to look at her and say _mine_ , and banish all other men from her life forever and retroactively. But Roy knew that was unfair. Much of his notorious love life in the long years leading up to the Promised Day had been fabricated, but not all of it. And there had been women he had cared for, even if he’d been careful never to string any of them along with promises of more than he could give. If Riza had found someone to give her that sort of comfort, he was mostly grateful for it. “I certainly have that to offer,” he said, at last. 

Riza closed her bag and sat down on the bed opposite him. “This transition is difficult,” she said, smiling slightly. “I’ve followed you for so long. I’m not sure of my place now that everything’s changed.”

Roy reached out and took her hand. “With me,” he said, his voice low. “Always.”

“I suppose I’ll get used to it,” she said. Hesitantly, she reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair. Her fingertips left trails of sensation tingling across his scalp. 

His breath hitched in his chest. “Riza,” he started, softly, and then he didn’t seem to be able to continue.

“Roy,” she whispered, and pulled him close.


	7. Chapter 7

JE: Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. It is my great honor and pleasure to introduce the candidate for the Amestrian Nationalist Party- my longtime friend and colleague, Antony Davis!

*applause*

AD: Hello. I’m pleased to accept my party’s nomination. I pledge to do my best as a candidate, both for the Dragons and for our country. This is an historic time for Amestris. Under the wise guidance of Fuhrer Grumman, we are entering an era of change. In times like these, the people of Amestris need to know that they can rely on the Fuhrer and the military, just as they always have. As Prime Minister, I intend to work closely with the office of the Fuhrer to ensure just that: that the people of Amestris are well-cared for, and that the military is still closely involved with the affairs of state.

In Amestris, we have always known how to adapt; to shoulder hardship with dignity. In my travels across Amestris, I’ve met countless widows who have lost husbands to the conflicts in the East and South- and countless young men missing limbs and comrades from those same conflicts. We are a people who meet adversity with strength, and terror with endless courage. As we face the unknown together, I know that we will face it with strength, with courage, and with the strong men and women of our military at our backs. Good night.

\--------------------------------

PF: So it’s Antony Davis for the Dragons and Franklin Greeley for the DemPops. Carl, what are your thoughts?

CT: It’s much too early to say, Peter. Look, Davis was always Bradley’s man. It’s no secret that he’s never been a fan of Grumman’s, and he’s not happy about the democratization efforts. So he’s dancing on a line here- he’s trying to win an election he probably doesn’t even want to happen. Greeley, on the other hand, is all for democratization.

PF: *laughs* That’s true. He’s been vocal about it for years- although he was quieter during the Bradley administration.

CT: They’re both safe bets for their parties. They’re popular with their bases, they’re experienced MPs. I think the parties don’t know what to make of this election- it doesn’t follow any of their playbooks. So we can’t start picking a winner now; this is a whole new world for Amestrian politics. Anything could happen.

PF: What do you think about the possibility of a dark horse candidate?

CT: Someone breaking ranks and striking out on their own? I’d be surprised if it _didn’t_ happen. Someone’s going to make a grab for it. As for who? Your guess is as good as mine.

\---------------------------------

 _The Resembool Register_ , excerpt, July 2nd, 1922:

Town Hall Dance

The hall will be turned out for a dance this Friday! Come out to see your neighbors in their finest. Dancing and games; refreshments and music provided. Sponsored by Rockbell Automail and Havoc General Goods.


	8. Chapter 8

Riza twisted, trying to reach behind herself.

“Do you need a hand?” Roy asked, stepping out from behind the dressing screen with a tie in his hand. 

“I’ll trade you,” Riza said, and took the tie. She turned her back to him expectantly. She could feel Roy step closer, his fingers tracing the back of her neck.

“I’ve always liked the way you look in blue,” he murmured, his voice low.

“Not disappointed that it’s not a miniskirt?” she commented, tilting her head to expose her neck a little more.

“I can’t help that I appreciate a beautiful pair of legs,” he said, his lips against her neck and his voice rumbling on her skin. “Yours in particular. But the dress is lovely.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you think so. Are you sure you should go with a tie?” 

“Too formal?” he asked, curling his hand around her waist. He pulled her toward him, the warm cotton of his shirt pressing against the still-bare skin of her back.

“You’ll look like a politician,” she said.

“I am a politician,” he pointed out. He kissed her neck, and then pulled away. He reached down, fiddled with the stuck zipper, and then pulled it up to the nape of her neck. “Or I will be. I hope.”

“You will be,” she said, smiling slightly. She turned. “I think going without the tie will work better here, though.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he allowed.

 _I usually am_ , she didn’t have to say.

The Resembool town hall was surprisingly large. It had been built, she was told, when Resembool was a larger and more prosperous place. Then the station had been bombed during the early years of Ishval, and the town had never recovered. Business had gone north or south to towns with a functioning train line. Most of the surviving infrastructure had been repurposed or torn down, but the town hall remained.

She squeezed Roy’s hand, warm in hers. “How should we proceed?” she asked, watching people stream into the hall.

“Petitions next to the pies, right?” he said. He took a deep breath and his face got serious. “Riza,” he said. “I have to convince them that I’m the best man for the job. What if it’s not true?”

Riza cocked her head. “Sir?” she said, blandly.

He shot her a look. “I mean it. We democratized the country. They get to vote now. What if someone else would be a better leader? Am I sure that I’m not just... blindly pursuing my own goals? This was always supposed to be about Amestris, and not about my personal power-”

Riza stepped forward, moving close to him. This was very _Roy_ , to doubt his own intentions. “No one else understands what happened in Ishval; in all of Amestris,” she said. “The country is in flux, and a bad leader could kill the democracy, on purpose or by accident. It needs someone who believes in it. It needs someone who understands that we have to take care of each other. Besides,” she added, dropping her voice, “I may have made new promises, but I never abandoned my old ones. I’m still watching your back.”

Roy nodded, his uncertainty suddenly gone. It was odd how obliquely threatening to kill him was comforting. But she understood- Roy’s greatest fear was becoming a monster or a tyrant. He needed her to assure him that it hadn’t happened yet. “Thank you,” he said, quietly. He leaned up and kissed her, almost chastely, his lips warm against hers.

“We’re not alone,” she reminded him, with humor. “And you have a Parliament seat to win. We should go in.”

Roy nodded. “As long as you’re watching my back,” he said, “I can face anything.”

As they entered the hall, Riza wished she had the same confidence. She wasn’t at all sure that she was prepared to be a political wife. Still, it wasn’t as though she was going to leave Roy on his own. She’d just have to adapt.

“You finally made it!” Edward said, coming up to them. “I know Mustang takes forever in the bathroom, but _still_.”

Roy grinned. “This level of artfully-tousled doesn’t happen by accident,” he responded gamely, gesturing vaguely at his head.

Edward rolled his eyes. “Come on,” he said. “You’d better make your stupid speech thing.” He dragged Roy off, leaving Riza standing with a smiling Winry. 

“It’s weird to see them together like this,” Winry said. “I sort of thought Ed hated Mr. Mustang. He always used to complain about him when he came home to visit. And then after he left the military, he just didn’t talk about it much. I can tell that Ed sort of doesn’t know how to _be_ around him now.”

Riza smiled. “I feel the same way sometimes. I got used to the way things were, but it’s all different now.”

Winry nodded. “It’s good, though, right?” she asked. “You seem happy together. Ed told me that there’d been this... _thing_ between the two of you for forever, but you couldn’t be with each other because of the military rules.”

So even _Ed_ had known, Riza noted dryly. “It is good,” she agreed. 

Roy, up at the front of the room, tapped a spoon against his glass to get everyone’s attention. He started on his speech- Riza already knew the words by heart, so she found herself paying more attention to the delivery. Roy was very good; earnest and heartfelt. It was amazing that someone who had spent so many years manipulating people could still manage ‘honest’. But then, Roy had always been an idealist. He’d had to hide it in the military, but now, perhaps, he could openly be himself.

Afterward, she and Breda worked the room. It was an endless parade of _have you considered signing?_ and _wants what’s best for Resembool_ and _working for the welfare of your people_. Riza felt tired after the first few encounters, and more tired thinking that they would be campaigning for days. But this was where the mission led. She had been many things for Roy- a sniper, an aide, a co-conspirator. She wouldn’t fail him now.

“How’re you doing?” Breda asked, coming up alongside her. 

“Well enough,” she said, catching sight of Roy across the room. “Heymans?” she asked, suddenly. “Are you happier being a civilian?”

He laughed. “The military wasn’t for me, not really. I hated that stupid wool uniform, and I hated having idiots in authority over me. The General was the reason I stayed in as long as I did; you know that.”

Riza nodded. “I never liked the uniform, either,” she told him, confidentially.

Breda looked sharply at her, and then started laughing again. “No kidding,” he said. 

\----------------------------

Roy had never been in the Parliament building before. It was near the Fuhrer’s mansion, on the other side of the city from the old HQ building. He’d been busy when he’d been in Central, and he’d never gotten around to it. But now, with the signatures on the petition that made him the MP of Resembool still wet, this was where he worked. Roy straightened his tie and tried not to look up into the gallery where Riza was sitting.

The other MPs had not greeted him happily. They had doubtless guessed that he intended to make a run at the Prime Minister’s office. That wouldn’t win him any friends- some of them resented him for challenging Davis or Greeley; some of them were afraid that he’d steal some of their thunder when they announced their own runs. Roy ignored the glares and sidelong glances. Instead, during the day’s deliberations, he watched the delegates. He paid attention to who they paid attention to, and who they argued with, and who they ignored. 

It was an instructive day. 

\-------------------------------

“Where do you want these?” Havoc drawled, balancing a box of files in one hand. He shifted to put more of his weight onto his cane.

Roy looked around the tiny office he’d been assigned. Resembool, apparently, hadn’t had an MP for well over a decade. By the looks of it, they’d had to clean out a closet to house him. A large-ish closet, to be fair. “Wherever you can fit them,” he said, dryly. Breda followed close after, and Riza and Sciezka after that. They ended up camped on the floor around the single chair, surrounded by stacks of files. 

“Voting records,” Breda commented archly. “The last ten years, every currently active MP. Shouldn’t take us long to sort through at _all_. You alchemists are insane, you know that?”

Roy grinned. “C’mon, Breda,” he teased. “I thought you’d be used to sitting on your ass. The only difference is, you have to use your eyes this time, instead of resting ‘em.”

Breda shot him an obscene gesture. He did angle his body so that Riza didn’t have a clear view of it, though, Roy noted. Not that she didn’t notice. Eyes of a Hawk, after all. “Couldn’t you have just _joined_ a party, boss?” Breda complained.

“Unfortunately,” Roy pointed out, “they all picked out their own candidates while I was still getting eligible. Very inconsiderate. I’m left with no option but to build my own party.” He paused. “I’m considering naming it ‘Amestris for Miniskirts’. What do you think?”

Havoc grinned. “I’d vote for that.”

“We can discuss the name later,” Riza said, with that _sir-I-may-have-to-shoot-you_ tone of voice. She indicated the boxes pointedly. “We have to actually build the party first. We should probably start with the independents and the DemPops,” she said. “We’re more likely to be able to convince some of them to join us. The Dragons are notoriously close-ranked. Havoc, start sorting the files by party. Breda, you and I will start making a list of the key votes for us to look at- votes that are related to our issues. We want to look for MPs who voted with our positions; particularly if they voted against their own parties.” She sighed. “It would be nice to have Falman here now.”

Sciezka spoke up for the first time, adjusting her glasses nervously. “Ma’am?” she said. “I don’t have the same sort of memory that Lieutenant Falman has, but if I read something, I’ll remember it. Why don’t I start reading the files, and once you figure out what the issues are, I can tell you who voted which way?”

Riza nodded. “That will be immensely helpful,” she said. “All right- everyone to work. It’s going to be a long day.”

“Don’t I get a job?” Roy asked, amused.

Riza smiled, just a little. “We could use some coffee,” she said, deadpan.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, laughing. “And then I’ll help you and Breda sort out the key votes.”

Riza nodded. “And then you’ll be off making friends with the other MPs while we finish this.”

\-------------------------------

Roy sat across from the other man, and smiled. “Please, call me Roy.”

Walter Calhoun looked dubiously at him. He was, perhaps, thirty years older than Roy. He’d been an MP for nearly forty years. He’d been a member of the Democratic Populist Party since its creation, fifteen years ago. He’d also voted against his party three times in the last two years, all on issues having to do with social services. 

“I’d rather not,” he said, firmly.

Roy smiled wider. “I see, Mr. Calhoun. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

Calhoun tented his fingers and looked over the desk at Roy. “Get to the point,” he said. “I don’t have time to waste, with you or otherwise. What do you want?”

Roy cocked his head. “I want you to help me form a new political party.”

Calhoun sputtered. “Why would I do that? You haven’t been in Parliament two weeks, and you come in here, trying to get me to abandon the party I helped build-”

“That’s exactly it,” Roy said, leaning forward. “You’ve built parties before. And the DemPops aren’t really your party anymore, are they?” He looked Calhoun straight in the eye. “I’ve studied your voting record. You care about the people of Amestris, don’t you, Mr. Calhoun? The others in Parliament are mostly just politicians. But you- you’re here because you hoped to make things better for the people in your district. The DemPops were founded because you wanted to push for the people to have more of a voice in their government. The DemPops have strayed from that path, and you know it. But those are my goals, too. I’ve worked for the democratization, and now I want to protect it-”

“ _You?_ ” Calhoun exploded. “You’re nothing but a jack-booted thug! You marched to Bradley’s tune for more than a decade- you were the Fuhrer’s golden boy. The hero of Ishval,” he spat, his face almost purple with rage. “You’re a murderer, and you’d be a tyrant in the Prime Minister’s office. And you want me to help you get there!”

Roy nodded, solemnly. He hadn’t expected this outburst, but he might be able to use it. “You lost your son in Ishval, didn’t you?” he said. It wasn’t really a question; Sciezka had researched Calhoun thoroughly. “I’m sorry. Too many good men died there. Too many on both sides.” Roy breathed carefully. “That’s why I’m doing this, actually,” he continued, his voice rough. “I won’t defend what I did in the war. It was unforgivable. And it can never be allowed to happen again.” He paused. “Someone that I trust reminded me recently that that’s why I _have_ to do this- someone who wasn’t there wouldn’t understand. They might forget what an atrocity it really was. They might not understand how evil the Fuhrer’s regime really was. But I understand.” He looked directly at Calhoun. “You understand, too.” Roy stood. “Think about it, Mr. Calhoun. But I swear to you- we want the same things.”

Calhoun leaned back in his chair, his face twisted with emotion. “Get out of my office,” he said, finally. 

“Just think about what I said,” Roy said.

\---------------------------

Riza tucked a stray lock of her hair back. “My name is Riza Hawkeye, Ms. Wilkinson. I work for Roy Mustang’s office.”

The other woman frowned. “And what does our newest Member of Parliament want with me, Ms. Hawkeye?” She was several years older than Riza, with frizzy red hair braided back into a bun. She was also an independent and a loose cannon and one of only three women currently serving in Parliament. When they had divided up interviews, Riza had asked for her.

“We were hoping to recruit your support in the upcoming election,” Riza said. “It’s probably no secret, but Mr. Mustang intends to make a run for the Prime Minister’s position. He’s trying to build a coalition, and we were hoping that you’d be part of it. I think you’ll find that we have a lot in common with you, politically.”

Wilkinson crossed her arms. “But he sent you rather than come speak to me himself?”

“I asked to be the one to meet with you, in fact,” Riza said, coolly. “But if you’d rather speak to Mr. Mustang, I can arrange a meeting.”

“What exactly do you do for Mr. Mustang?” Wilkinson asked. Her tone was challenging, and Riza wasn’t sure why.

Riza also wasn’t sure what the answer to her question was. Roy hadn’t exactly assigned anyone job titles. “I’m his aide,” she said, after a pause. “Essentially. The office hasn’t been entirely organized yet. Is there some sort of problem?”

Wilkinson snorted. “I’ll be blunt,” she said. “I don’t appreciate your boss sending a glorified secretary after me.”

Riza blinked. “Is that what you think is going on here?” she asked. She leaned her head back, meeting Wilkinson’s eyes. “I’m sorry to disagree with you, but I don’t think you understand how Mr. Mustang operates.”

Wilkinson looked dubious. “How does he operate?”

“Not efficiently,” Riza said, unable to keep some of the humor out of her voice, “But thoughtfully. He listens to his subordinates. When I told him _I think Ellen Wilkinson will join us, and I think we could do great things together,_ he agreed. When I told him _Let me approach her; she’ll appreciate someone who speaks plainly_ , he agreed to that, too.” She straightened her back. “I wasn’t just saying that earlier, about our politics. I’ve seen your voting record. Social services and women’s rights are your hotbutton issues. They’re our issues, too. I’ve left a policy brief with your aide, if you’d like to look it over at your leisure.”

“Roy Mustang cares about women’s rights?” Wilkinson asked, sarcastically. Because, of course, Roy had a reputation.

Wilkinson needed the truth. Riza knew that it wasn’t a truth that would get Roy killed anymore, but it was still difficult to come out and say it. Riza gathered herself, leaning forward. “Roy Mustang cares about human rights,” she said. “I’ve followed him for over a decade. He wants the office because he’s seen what’s happened in this country, and he knows that the government and the military are corrupt. He knows that the only way to change things is to be on top of the whole pile. That’s the only way he can look out for everyone. He’s risked his life for that, and so have I.” She sat up straight. “And if you doubt that- that’s all the more reason to join. He needs people to remind him of what he stands for. You could be one of those voices.”

Wilkinson looked thoughtful. “I’ll consider it,” she said, slowly.

“See that you do,” Riza told her.

\----------------------------

Riza pulled her kettle off the hook. She debated with herself between coffee and tea, and finally settled on coffee. As much as she drank in a day, it probably wouldn’t even keep her up. She was so tired. She’d had five meetings that day, and each one had been a struggle. She lit the burner on the stove with a match and set the kettle on it. She leaned against the counter. Hayate bumped his head against her shin, and she reached down to pat him. 

She had lived through much worse, she reminded herself. These trials were neither terrifying nor life-threatening. They were just _irritating_. She could certainly be forgiven for wishing, for just a moment, to be given an enemy that she could shoot at. 

The kettle whistled. She turned the burner off and reached for her press. As she picked up the kettle, a knock came at the door.

Riza frowned. No one ever visited her. Carefully, she set down the kettle and made her way to the front door. Hayate stood guard silently across from her, his ears pricked and alert. Riza peered out of the peephole- and then relaxed. She unbolted the door. “Roy,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

He looked up at her, his dark eyes tired. “I needed to see you,” he said, softly. _Please let me come in_ , he didn’t say.

She stood aside and let him enter. “You really shouldn’t be here,” she told him.

“I won’t stay long enough to cause a scandal,” he promised. He stopped in the entry to the living room, as if uncertain where he should go from there. 

“I was just making coffee,” she offered.

He shook his head. “Just-” he started. He caught her hand in his. “Just-”

She stilled. “Roy?” she asked.

He pulled her close and leaned into her shoulder. “It was a long day,” he said, finally.

Tentatively, she reached up and stroked his hair. “Sit down,” she told him.

She went to see to the coffee, and he settled onto her couch. “Calhoun,” he said, and sighed.

Riza nodded. “It didn’t go well?” she asked.

“He accused me of being a baby-killer and a thug,” Roy said, wryly. “Then he told me to get out. My other meetings went reasonably well today, but not that one.”

“What did you do?” Riza asked, sitting down beside him.

Roy huffed out his breath. “What _could_ I do?” he said. “It’s true, isn’t it? And we knew that was the risk of throwing ourselves in with Bradley during the cover-up on the Promised Day. Now we have damage control to do.”

“We expected that,” she agreed. “And either Calhoun will come around, or we’ll make do without him.”

Roy nodded, silently. He leaned forward, his fingers laced together and his lips curled down in a frown. 

Riza brushed his cheek with her fingertips. He startled, turning towards her. “We survived Ishval,” she said. “We survived the homunculi and the Promised Day. I’m relatively certain that we will survive this.” She leaned over and kissed him gently.

He breathed out, a long slow exhale, and leaned against her. _I love you_ , he didn’t say. _Of course_ , she didn’t answer.

In the stillness, the phone rang. Riza got up- a visit, and now a phone call. It was a night for exceptions, apparently.

There was a woman’s voice on the other end of the phone when she answered. _“Ms. Hawkeye?”_

“Yes,” Riza said. “How can I help you?”

 _“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,”_ the nameless woman said, _“But your grandfather is dead.”_


	9. Chapter 9

# A NATION IN MOURNING

August 3rd, 1922

CENTRAL CITY- Thousands took to the street today for the funeral of the late Fuhrer Grumman. The Fuhrer passed away in his sleep from a heart ailment on Tuesday. He is mourned by a nation grateful for his strong leadership.

Fuhrer Grumman took office in 1915, directly after the assassination of the late Fuhrer Bradley. The Fuhrer’s regime has been notable for progressive social programs and more permissive restrictions on the press and the judicial system. The Fuhrer’s crowning achievement, however, is the transfer of governmental power to the Parliament, which is due to take place after the October elections. “The time has come for the people of Amestris to determine their own fate,” Grumman was quoted as saying last month.

General Olivier Mira Armstrong, who was named as his successor in May, spoke yesterday to a crowd of mourners, saying “Fuhrer Grumman was an excellent leader, and will be missed. In his absence, I will do my best to lead Amestris through these difficult times.”

The Fuhrer is survived only by his granddaughter, Captain Riza Hawkeye (ret.). 

\----------------------------

 _The New Optain Dispatch_ , excerpt, editorial section.  
August 2nd, 1922.

Former General Roy Mustang quietly announced his intention to run for Prime Minister this week. You may have missed it in the whirlwind of mourning surrounding the Fuhrer’s death; most people did. For those keeping track, this brings the count of PM candidates to five: Antony Davis for the Amestrian Nationalists, Franklin Greeley for the Democratic Populists, Malkus Parker and Alf Shriver as independents, and now Roy Mustang for the newly-formed Progressive Alliance. 

Usually, candidates for high office seek out attention. So why has Mustang chosen to downplay his entry into the field? It may be that he is doing so in honor of the late Fuhrer who was by all accounts a close friend. However, Mustang has played a canny game so far. No one expected him to be a player in the upcoming election, but he bypassed the seat requirement by filling an empty seat by petition. He has also moved startlingly fast in forming a new party. Whatever his reasons for being quiet about the announcement, I think we can be certain that he will move quickly once the situation calls for it.

How he will move, though, is more of a question. Mustang’s Progressive Alliance is an aggregation of former DemPops, independents, and left-leaning rabble-rousers. For a man with a history that looks staunchly conservative, pro-military and downright hawkish, he has chosen surprising allies. What is more surprising, however, is that he was able to recruit long-serving MPs like Austen Chapple (Stilling), Percy Colefax (Yock) and Ellen Wilkinson (Bellin). As a junior MP, we would have expected Mustang to join their parties, and not the other way round.

The _Dispatch_ has no intention of endorsing a candidate until it becomes clear that all of the players have arrived and declared themselves. Nonetheless, Roy Mustang will be an interesting candidate to watch.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unending thanks to mebh, for being the best beta reader I could ask for.

It wasn’t fair that she didn’t have a uniform anymore. She hadn’t _liked_ the uniform; it was wool, and too heavy, and the cavalry skirt was an idiotic relic. But at least she didn’t have to _think_ about it. When she had attended Hughes’ funeral, she had been able to put the uniform on, with the black funeral sash, and know that she was dressed appropriately. She had been faceless in her grief, identical to dozens of other soldiers there. 

Now she had choices. She was somehow expected to decide what to wear to the funeral of the former leader of her country, who had also been her last remaining relative. The press would be there, and she had to be presentable. Finally, she settled on a black skirt and blouse with sensible heels- why not be traditional, after all. 

She went downstairs and waited for the car to pick her up. Roy was already there when the door opened. He held out a hand to help her into the car. She took it and stepped in, settling onto the seat next to him. “How are you?” he asked quietly as they got underway.

“I’m not sure how I should be,” she said, bitterness creeping into her voice. “Am I expected to grieve? I hardly knew the man. I’ve only known he was related to me for the last few years, and it’s not as though he made any effort to forge a relationship. You knew him better than I did.” She subsided, calming herself.

Roy took her hand, stroking the inside of her wrist with his thumb. “Appearances,” he said, wryly. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much. I have complete faith in your ability to be appropriately solemn.”

Riza wasn’t sure why she was responding so strongly. It was true that she didn’t know Grumman well enough to grieve for him, for all that she was his sole heir- but perhaps that was it. It seemed like such a _waste_. if Grumman was going to claim her, surely it should have been years ago- when his only daughter had died, leaving Riza to look after her father on her own. When her father had died, leaving Riza to find her way in the world. It should have been when he could have been of some _use_ to her.

She made herself look out the window, pursing her lips slightly. Beside her, Roy held her hand in his, and did not try to make her talk. 

The service was what she expected. It was a military funeral, with pomp according to Grumman’s rank. As the only family present, Riza found herself, Roy in tow, in the front row of the assembled masses. Olivier Armstrong was to her left. Riza wondered what message that placement was meant to send, if any. Grumman’s two heirs- civil and military- seated together at his funeral.

The press were discreet, at least. There was a periodic flashing of bulbs, but otherwise they remained silent. Riza tried to keep herself composed for the cameras. When it was over, she was presented with the flag from the casket. She had already been informed that she would need to surrender it later for historical preservation, but this was her part in the ritual. She accepted the flag and tucked it neatly into her lap. With a dirge playing, the coffin was lowered into the ground. A small army of men began spading dirt over it.

“That was maudlin,” Armstrong murmured disapprovingly.

“Funerals often are,” Riza pointed out. 

Armstrong harrumphed. “I suppose they’ll do this for me someday,” she said. “I hope Alex is dead by then. He can always be counted on to make a spectacle of himself.”

The earth was packed and rounded over the grave, and she stood and saluted with the rest. It was slightly irregular for Riza to offer a military farewell out of uniform, but she was a soldier, even if a retired one.

Roy turned to Armstrong as the service ended. “You’re looking as radiant as ever,” he said, as she made to file away.

Armstrong looked at him as though he were something she’d found burning in a paper bag on her stoop. “I hear you’ve become a politician,” she said.

Roy smiled. “I hear you’re about to become Fuhrer,” he said. He grinned suddenly. “She should have dinner sometime!” he exclaimed. “The two of us and my beautiful fiancée!” He wrapped an arm around Riza’s waist.

Olivier looked over at Riza. “You have unfortunate taste in men, she said. “But let me know if you ever change your mind about him. I could use someone like you on my staff.” 

Riza raised and eyebrow. “I’m happy where I am,” she said, dryly. “For the moment. I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Hmph,” Armstrong said, and marched away.

“Sir,” Riza said, acidly. “I prefer you not use me as part of your hobby of baiting Olivier Armstrong.”

Roy carefully removed his arm from her waist, still grinning unrepentantly. “We _are_ going to have to develop a relationship with her,” he said.

“It would probably be better if the relationship didn’t involve her wanting to murder you,” Riza pointed out.

“I think it’s too late to change _that_ ,” Roy said. “But the more irritating I am, the more relieved she’ll be to deal with you.”

“Shifting your work off onto me again?” she said, but she wasn’t actually as annoyed as she let herself sound. Roy realized that, of course. He just smiled and offered her his arm.

As they made their way down the hill and toward the waiting cars, the press were there with their cameras again. Riza did her best to pretend that they weren’t there; Roy did his best to look supportive and empathetic to Riza. There was the female vote to think about, after all.

“What do you think this will mean?” Riza murmured, just loud enough for Roy to hear her. “Grumman’s death. It could change the entire game.”

“I don’t know,” Roy said. “I wish I had a better feel for Olivier’s stance. This was an unfortunately timed event.”

“Death is rarely fortunately timed,” Riza observed.

\----------------------------

Riza and Breda were checking over the security precautions again. Breda slouched amiably in a chair, while Riza bent over the table in between them. “This is a bad setup,” she said. “There are too many angles of fire to the stage.”

She would know, of course. “It’s in a city,” Roy argued. “There are buildings around. Short of evacuating the block, which won’t win us any friends, there’s nothing we can do about that.

She sighed. “I suppose that’s true,” she said, skeptically. 

Breda grinned. “We could put you up in your own nest. I’m sure you could snipe the snipers.”

Riza looked a little wistful at that, but Roy shook his head. “No, she’s going to be on stage with me, holding my hand so I don’t die of stage fright.”

Riza rolled her eyes. “If we get reports of rioting, though, I want you to reconsider the event.”

Roy knew she was worried. It was even reasonable for her to be worried. Everything was... unsettled, since Grumman’s death. There’d been rumors that Armstrong intended to cancel the elections, and rumors that she wouldn’t, and both were frightening prospects for the Amestrian people. There’d been riots in Youswell and Pickerington- they’d been restored to order fairly quickly, but there was a palpable tension in the air, even here in New Optain. Roy shook his head. “No, I won’t. People need to know that we’re continuing, no matter what. If I cancel an event, I show a lack of faith.” He smiled, just slightly. “And a lack of spine.”

He could tell that she wanted to argue, to tell him that it wasn’t worth his life. But they’d both done that calculation long ago. She’d fight to protect his life, but his goals came first. “Just be cautious,” she advised, sharply. “This was all for nothing if you’re dead.”

“On that note,” Breda said, “I’ll leave you to work on your speech. I should get these changes to the security team.”

“Thank you, Heymans,” Riza said. With a backwards wave, Breda sauntered out of the room. 

“My speech,” Roy groaned, dramatically. “Contrary to popular belief, I hate speaking in front of crowds.” 

“Don’t whine,” Riza told him. “You knew what you were getting into when you decided to do this.” But she still sat down next to him and ran a hand through his hair. He smiled and relaxed into her touch.

Roy was only partially joking about stage fright. He knew theater. The hall, the heavy velvet curtains, the bright lights- they were all familiar from the cabaret and dance shows he’d grown up with. But he’d only ever been stage crew. The prospect of walking out in front of the lights was strangely unnerving. “You’re not the one who has to get up in front of everyone,” he grumbled.

“Yes, I am,” she said, calmly. “I’ll be right there at your side, won’t I?”

\-----------------------------------

Roy stood at the podium, the lights shining bright in his eyes. The hall was loud with talking. In the distance, he could see signs waving. _This can’t be worse than a firefight_ , he told himself, though he was a little dubious on that point. He made himself smile and pull his voice up from his diaphragm. “Hello,” he said, and heard the sound amplified out into the noisy hall. They quieted slowly. Roy gripped the sides of the podium. “It’s a pleasure to be in New Optain,” he said. “It’s been too long since I was here.” They cheered, and he waited for the noise to die down again.

“There are moments,” he said, “where we stand at the edge of the unknown. Where there is a choice to be made, and it will determine the future courses of our lives. These moments are frightening and dangerous, but full of opportunity. And we, as a nation, stand on the edge of one such moment now.”

It wasn’t bad once he got going. The crowd responded to him, and the lights put distance between him and them. And once he started- well, he had other things to think about. He was caught up in the flow of words.

“These have been difficult years for Amestris,” he told them. “We have all felt the impact of the wars in Aerugo and Ishval. None of us have emerged from those conflicts unscarred. All of us have lost friends and family- fathers and sisters and brothers. But we have before us the opportunity to change the course of our country. To choose to be done with damaging and expensive wars. To choose peace for the first time in generations.”

They were quiet now, rapt, listening. He liked this, he realized suddenly. 

“I cannot say that I am the best man for the job,” he continued. “That’s not my choice to make- it’s yours now. But I will say that I’ve given my life to the service of Amestris. I have served this nation as best I could. Now that my dream of a truly democratic Amestris is about to come true, I hope that you’ll allow me to serve as her Prime Minister.” He paused, smiling. “Thank you. Good night.”

Riza was waiting for him as he stepped off the podium. “That was a good first try,” she allowed, her eyes sparkling. 

Roy’s hands were steady. “It’ll get better,” he assured her, grinning.


	11. Chapter 11

August 8th, 1922

CENTRAL CITY- Fuhrer Oliver Mira Armstrong took office today in a public ceremony held in the rebuilt Military Headquarters on the outskirts of the city. Thousands gathered to watch as Fuhrer Armstrong took the oath of office, swearing to “uphold and defend Amestris, her people and properties.”

Fuhrer Armstrong addressed the crowd, emphasizing the need for fortitude and strong leadership. “The office of the Fuhrer will continue to be the force for stability that Amestris needs. I promise you that my leadership will be strict and uncompromising,” she said. 

The Fuhrer was personally accompanied by an honor guard of men transferred from her long-time command at Fort Briggs, led by Lt. Col. Miles, who has served with Fuhrer Armstrong for over a decade. She was also accompanied by Generals Tiuna, Kentaras, Magach and Kriss along with battalions of troops from each of the five military centers of Amestris. 

There were representatives from the civil government as well. Most of Parliament was on hand, including the candidates for Prime Minister. Several of the candidates made statements of support. “I will be honored to serve with Fuhrer Armstrong in any capacity,” Antony Davis (ANP) said. Roy Mustang (PAA) added, “This is truly a new era of hope for Amestris.”

\-------------------------------------

transcript, _The News Hour_ : August 10th, 1922

JW: And now we’re going to the phones to hear what you think of the candidates. Hello, caller.

C1: Hello, Mr. Wilkinson. I listen to your show all the time!

JW: Thank you. That’s kind of you to say! Now, tell us- what are your thoughts on the candidates?

C1: I’m voting for Greeley. He’s always been there for the working man. Mustang talks a good talk, but he’s been in the military all these years. How does he know what the rest of us are going through?

JW: Not impressed with the rest of the bunch?

C1: Davis is too pro-military for me. And I don’t know where Parker and Shriver stand.

JW: Thank you, caller. Our next caller is from South-Central!

C2: Hello, Mr. Wilkinson. I just wanted to let you know that I’m voting for Davis. He’s a good man, and he has the experience that the others are lacking- especially Mustang.

JW: Thanks for your opinion! Next caller?

C3: I’m for Mustang! I don’t see how people can say he doesn’t have experience. He’s been in the military since he was a teenager! And he’s the only one with any new ideas. The rest of ‘em are just representing the same old special interests like nothing’s changed.

JW: There’s a lot of talk about Mustang, that’s for sure. Caller?

C4: Isn’t anyone else paying attention to the news? We need a strong hand to deal with these lunatics in the street. That’s Davis!

JW: Well, folks, as you can hear, there are some divided opinions! Just stay tuned for a word from our sponsor, and then we’ll be back for more about the elections- and some surprising local news as well.

\-----------------------------------

excerpt, _Central Talks Magazine_ : August 12th, 1922

Roy Mustang and his aide-turned-fiancee Riza Hawkeye agreed to meet me in Mustang’s office in the Parliament building. It’s smaller than you would imagine for such a prominent political figure. “I joined Parliament midsession. They had to find a space for me. I think they cleared out a storage closet, frankly,” he explains, his eyes twinkling with good humor. He clears a chair off for me, and we sit down in an office filled to brimming with neat stacks of files.

We’re interrupted twice before we can start the interview. The first time is by a tall, handsome man with a cane. He’s got business to discuss with Mustang, but does so quickly and good-naturedly, and throws me a lazy salute as he leaves. I find out later that this is Jean Havoc, who served with Mustang some years ago. He’s a decorated veteran and was wounded in the line of duty. 

The second interruption is from another MP, Gest Fleming. Fleming is part of Mustang’s new Progressive Alliance, and he also chats cordially with Mustang for a few minutes and then leaves. Mustang is apologetic after he goes. “This is a busy time,” he tells me. He looks to Miss Hawkeye. “Is anyone else going to show up out of the blue?” he asks.

“There shouldn’t be anyone,” she says. “Havoc and Breda should be able to manage for half an hour without you.”

They’re an understated couple. At a casual glance, you’d never know that they plan to be married later this year. “Right after the election,” Mustang tells me, with a sly smile. When I comment on how little they act like a couple, Mustang shrugs. “We were in the military for years,” he says, his voice going quiet. “I was her commanding officer.” He trails off then, like he’s not sure how to explain.

Hawkeye steps in for him there. She’s a pretty woman with a taste for conservative clothes. Her blonde hair is tucked up in a large clip. It’s easy to believe that she served in the military for years. It’s a bit harder to believe that this quiet, diminutive woman is the decorated sniper known as “The Hawk’s Eye” in Ishval. “There were rules against fraternization. But we had a job to do, and we both knew that our service to Amestris was more important than our personal feelings,” she explains. She frowns, suddenly. “I could have been reassigned, I suppose. But the military was a dangerous place then, and someone had to watch his back.” She’s making reference to the military conspiracies that were unmasked in 1915.

I ask her whether it was a relief to leave the military, and she smiles. “In some ways. It took Roy all of thirty seconds to propose. But in other ways, it’s been difficult. Military life is very ordered.”

“Politics isn’t,” Mustang puts in, grinning. “It’s exciting, though. It’s a challenge, and there’s no question that this is where we can do the most good for the people of Amestris.”

That seems to genuinely be the biggest concern for both of them. It’s surprising in a politician, and I’m reminded that, despite Mustang’s years of public service, this is his first election. I ask them both why it is that they are so devoted to the public good. Their faces both get very serious, and suddenly, I can believe that they’re in love. They look at each other in a way that you usually only see when a couple’s been married for a lifetime.

Mustang speaks first. “I saw and did terrible things in the war. I felt that I had to make up for what I’d done. But more importantly, I knew that all the people of Amestris needed- deserved- more.” From someone else, it might sound like nothing more than campaign rhetoric.

Hawkeye puts a hand over his, and turns toward me. Her brown eyes are desperately solemn. “Even when we were children, Roy had a dream of a government that protected and helped its people. I have always believed that one day, he would make that dream a reality.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to mebh, who basically stood next to me and poked me until I finished this. And then edited it promptly.

Havoc grinned as he handed over the tie he’d brought. “I know you wish I was Hawkeye,” he said, and dropped into a chair with a sigh. He leaned his cane against the wall. “She said to tell you that since she won’t be on stage with you, she’s taking security detail tonight.”

Roy sighed. “Tell her that she’s entirely too practical,” he grumbled. He looped the tie around his neck, knotting it deftly. “So, are you my minder for the evening?” he asked.

“Aw, like you need minding tonight,” Havoc said, cheerfully. “You’re going to be busy arguing with the other candidates. And you like arguing.”

Havoc had a point there. “Debating,” Mustang corrected, with mock seriousness. “It’s an ancient and noble art.”

“Which you learned at your mama’s knee,” Havoc suggested. “Your mom is great, by the way. I don’t know why you didn’t introduce us sooner.”

Roy laughed, combing his fingers through his hair. “ _Security_ , Havoc. Besides, aren’t you concerned about what Catalina might think?”

“I said I liked your _mom_ , not your sisters,” Havoc pointed out, grinning. “I’m not suicidal.”

There was a knock on the door. “Five minutes, Mr. Mustang!” a female voice called.

“Wish me luck,” Roy said.

“Like hell,” Havoc told him. “Kick their asses, boss.”

\---------------------------------------

They were arranged in a loose semi-circle on the stage. Davis and Greeley were to stage right, and Parker and Shriver were to stage left. Roy was, for whatever reason, at center stage. He swallowed the now-familiar lump in his throat, and waited for the curtain to rise.

The candidates eyed each other. Davis was a handsome man in his early fifties with a touch of grey at his temples. Greeley was pot-bellied and bespectacled, but with a sense of affability about him. Parker, to his left, was a lean-looking man in his forties. Shriver was tall and lanky, with graying ginger hair and a strikingly long nose. Roy was the youngest man on the stage by at least a decade, he estimated. Roy looked down at his notes. He had been the youngest man in the room for a long time. The youngest State Alchemist on record, at least until Fullmetal had set a record that would hopefully never be broken. The youngest Colonel in the army. The youngest man ever to make General. And dammit, he was also going to be the youngest Prime Minister in Amestris’ history- and the first in a hundred years. Or he was going to try, at least.

“Nervous, Mustang?” a voice said. Roy looked up to see Davis looking at him with a gleam in his eye. “I know you don’t have much experience with this.”

Roy smiled his most predatory smile. “I’ve faced things far more frightening than the four of you,” he said. The curtain started to rise, and Roy smiled and waved for the crowd. He could hear the hum of static as their microphones went live.

“Good evening,” the moderator said. “It’s my honor to welcome you to the first of the debates between the candidates for Prime Minister. I present to you your candidates: Mr. Antony Davis, for the Amestrian Nationalist Party. Mr. Franklin Greeley, for the Democratic Populist Party. Mr. Roy Mustang, for the Progressive Alliance for Amestris. Mr. Malkus Parker, independent. And finally, Mr. Alf Shriver, also independent.”

The moderator went on to explain the rules and format for the debate- all details that Roy had long since familiarized himself with. He let his eyes roam over the hall. Which corner, he wondered, had Riza tucked herself into? She would want someplace high; someplace with a good view of the rest of the house. Somewhere over the stage might be ideal, he mused. It would let her see whether someone else had put themselves in a sniper’s position toward the stage. Not that Roy really believed that there would be a sniper. Riza was concerned by the growing unrest- but that was civil disorder. The sort of people who took to the streets in anger were not the same sort of people who could plan and carry out an assassination.

The moderator finished, and then they were in the thick of the debate itself. 

“I believe that an independent police force would be a mistake,” Davis said. “The military police have the experience. Training a new police force will mean effort and expense that Amestris can ill-afford.”

“Effort and expense, yes,” Roy argued. “But necessary effort and expense. If the civil government is truly going to have authority, then the military cannot be in the position of enforcing civil law.”

“There must be a complete break between the civil and military governments,” Shriver agreed. “The military has ruled absolutely for long enough. The peoples’ voices must be heard!”

“The Fuhrer and her predecessors have ruled with a firm hand and a single, powerful voice- exactly what this country has always needed!” Davis snapped. 

“The Fuhrer is still the ruler of this country,” Roy pointed out. “We serve at her pleasure. Fuhrer Grumman had a vision of a democratic Amestris, but the government will never be completely separate from the military. It’s up to us to find the balance between the two.”

“I must agree with my opponent from the ANP,” Parker put in. “The unrest in Youswell, Pickerington and now Bellin is proof that now is not the time to make sweeping changes to our police force. Perhaps in a few years we can re-evaluate the situation.”

“The unrest is a result of the ongoing economic situation,” Greeley said. “And of the uncertainty about these elections. The former must be solved by decisive and sensitive action on the part of the government; the second must be solved by successful and democratic elections.”

“And the economic situation can be blamed on Amestris’ history of conflict,” Roy pointed out. “This election is an opportunity for us to change the cycle of expansion and war that has taken such a toll on the citizens of Amestris.”

\--------------------------------------------

Walking to his dressing room afterwards, Roy felt a curious mix of exhaustion and elation. He lived for debate, but being in front of everyone, being on for so long; it was wearing. He hadn’t seen Riza since before the debate, and he wondered where she was.

He pushed open the door.

There was a stranger in his room. Roy jumped back, raising his hands to clap- “Captain Ross,” he said, finally recognizing her. “Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.”

“Hello, General,” she said, nodding wryly. “There was a vacuum in the command structure. But thank you.”

Roy undid his tie, sighing. He really hadn’t needed that particular jolt of adrenalin. “What brings you here?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Roy could see Ross’s discomfort.

“You saved my life once,” she said, quietly. “From a conspiracy in the upper ranks of the military. I think I’m obligated to try to do the same for you.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. “You’re not trying to tell me Armstrong is a homunculus, are you?” he asked, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. Even as he joked, though, he was thinking grim thoughts. A conspiracy in the brass was bad news. 

Ross shook her head. “I hear whispers,” she told him. “Or my team does. There are parts of the general staff that hate the elections. They say Armstrong is a traitor to the military, and so are you. I think they might try something.”

Roy began cleaning the stage makeup from his face, thinking. This wasn’t a surprise. They’d purged the general staff of anyone that they could prove had sided with the homunculi. Still, no one got to high rank in the military of Amestris without being an ambitious son-of-a-bitch, and he knew they were going to be pissed about some of their power being taken away. He’d just banked on the ability of Grumman to control the brass. Except, of course, Grumman wasn’t around anymore. 

Ross cleared her throat. “I can assign some of my team to your security staff. You should have people you can trust.”

“Thank you,” Roy said, turning to face her. “I’d be an idiot not to take you up on that.”

“I owed you,” Ross said, simply.

\---------------------------------------------------

“Are you ready?” Roy asked. 

Riza frowned at the mirror, putting the finishing touches on her makeup. “Do I look like a loving political wife yet?” she asked, dryly.

“God forbid,” Roy said. “You look like you. A bit more made up than usual,” he admitted. “And I’m still getting used to seeing you out of uniform.” His voice went low, and he leaned in. “I like it, though.”

Riza smiled. “Don’t mess up my makeup,” she said, tartly.

“I’m glad you’re with me again,” he said, retreating.

“ _I_ wish I was on security,” she said, wistfully. “I’m concerned about the latest intel from Captain Ross. I’m useless sitting on the stage with you.” Ross’s original warning had been vague, and she had gotten no more specific. They had also sent a warning to Armstrong, who had pretty much scowled and said that any yellow-backed cowards who thought they could take her were welcome to _try_. Riza hoped she was right. Losing another Fuhrer would destabilize the country drastically.

“We’ve upped our security as much as we can,” Roy said. “And it’s good PR to have you on the stage. The public likes you, you know.” 

Riza scowled. “The public doesn’t know me,” she pointed out.

“I do,” Roy said. He took her hand and pulled her close. “You were right, when we started this. You humanize me. They can see the way I look at you.”

Riza smiled. “You’re a fool,” she said, softly. “But I love you.”

Roy just smiled like an idiot.

Someone knocked on the door to let them know that they were needed on stage.

Riza looked out at the crowd, smiling as best she could. She and Roy were so unaccustomed to the _publicity_ of this process. He was a born weasel, and she was a sniper. She liked to watch people from afar, but she did not like being watched in return. She particularly didn’t like the way the stage lights obscured her vision. She settled herself in her seat, trying to look relaxed. 

Then Ellen Wilkinson finished her introduction (“Roy Mustang is new to politics, but not to service. He will change Amestris, but he needs our help!”) and Roy took the stage. “Hello, Central City,” he said, with what Riza had already categorized as his Politician’s Smile. It was similar to the smile he’d used in the past to charm women, but a little less leering. A little. “I’m glad to be back,” he continued. “I love all of Amestris, but there’s no place like home.”

He was still talking, but Riza’s attention was wrenched away from him. She heard it before she saw it; a sound that she knew from long practice: the crack-hiss of a rifle shot. She was already on her feet before she had completely processed it; her pistol in her hand and scanning the crowd. But the lights were in her eyes, and she couldn’t see where the shot had come from.

Then she heard Roy’s breath hitch, and her stomach rolled. She turned to see Roy crouched on the ground, his right hand clutched against his belly. He tried to stand, but his eyes rolled up and he fell back to the ground. There was blood on his shirt, the stain spreading rapidly. “Roy-” she gasped, and dropped to her knees in front of him, keeping herself between him and likely angles of fire. The shooter had to have been high, to catch his torso while he was behind the podium... in the distance, she could hear screaming.

His eyes were wild. “Riza,” he said, his voice urgent. A moment passed between them, and she understood what he needed her to do. She didn’t like it, but- She leaned down and pulled his arm across her shoulders. Then she stood, shouldering his weight. Roy clutched for the microphone.

“No,” he said, desperately, his voice hoarse with pain and frustration. He steadied himself against the podium. “No!” he repeated. The hall went quiet, every face turning to hear what he was going to say. “We can’t let this happen,” he pleaded, his eyes closing with concentration. “The riots. The violence. This election is our hope-” His voice cracked. “We have to look out for each other,” he said. Riza could feel him shaking in her arms. “We look out for the ones we love, and they look out for their people, and so on all the way down.” He gasped, leaning against the podium. “If you let them take this election away, it means another four hundred years of war, with no hope for peace. It means them using you like they’ve always done. Please- no matter what happens to me- please-”

Roy crumpled, and the hall exploded with noise. Riza lowered him gently to the ground. She gritted her teeth and concentrated on first aid, trying to stop the bleeding. It was a gut shot, and those were slow, but dirty. And the bullet had gone straight through, which was good, but it meant there was an exit wound to deal with-

“Riza...” he said, his dark eyes looking _into_ her. “You have to finish this, if-

“I would be a terrible politician, sir,” she said. “Please don’t make me do your job.”

He smiled, his eyes wandering. “I’ll do my best,” he whispered. “For you.”

The medics arrived then, and she was left standing there, her hands covered in Roy’s blood. 

“Shit,” Havoc said, somewhere off to her left. 

Riza nodded, staring at her hands. “He needed to make that speech,” she said, calmly. “It was an opportunity. It’ll be hard for the military to argue that they should step in and stop the election now.”

“Hawkeye-” Havoc started, his voice choked.

“He won’t die,” Riza said. Her vision was blurring, and she wasn’t sure why. “He survived everything else. This can’t kill him.”


	13. Chapter 13

transcript, CKEW live broadcast: August 24th, 1922

Ladies and gentlemen, Roy Mustang has been shot. He’s on the ground now, and we can’t see what’s happening. His fiancée is with him, and she seems to be doing some sort of first aid. You’d expect the hall to be in chaos, but the crowd is quiet. It’s like they’re holding their breaths to see what happens next. There are military police moving through the aisles, perhaps looking for the shooter.

The medics have entered the building, now and there’s a commotion out in the front. I’m sending someone to find out what’s happening. Here, the medics have already gone to the podium. They’re moving Mr. Mustang to a stretcher. He is still awake, but he’s in rough shape. The MPs are escorting the medics out of the building. One of Mr. Mustang’s staff is escorting Miss Hawkeye away.

I’m being informed that the MP’s have caught the shooter. We don’t know his identity yet, but he’s been taken into custody. The crowd is standing and beginning to file out, in an orderly fashion- wait! Someone is taking the podium. It appears to be Heymans Breda, Mr. Mustang’s campaign manager.

_I just wanted to tell you that Roy Mustang is not out of this race. I’ve served with him for a long time, and he never gives up. Not on anyone, and not on Amestris. Please don’t give up on him. He’ll be back before you know it._

That sound you hear is cheering, folks. 

We’re being asked to clear the building by the military police now. This is Tom Anderson for CKEW news, signing off.

\-------------------------------------  
August 25th, 1922

CENTRAL CITY-- Central City was rocked yesterday by an attempt on the life of Prime Ministerial candidate Roy Mustang. Mustang was speaking to several thousand people at a rally on the outskirts of the city when he was shot. Mustang was taken to an undisclosed location, and sources say that he remains alive but in critical condition. The military police have released a statement saying that they have the shooter in custody. However, they have not yet released his name, citing an ongoing investigation.

Mustang continued to address the crowd after he was shot, telling the crowd “we can’t let this happen” and begging for an end to the violence that has plagued the streets in the wake of difficult economic conditions and political uncertainty.

\-------------------------------------

Transcript, speech by MP Walter Calhoun (Manviller) in Parliament: August 28th, 1922

Roy Mustang came to me several months ago to ask me to join him in the creation of the party that became the Progressive Alliance for Amestris. He was persuasive, but I declined. My reasons for declining, I am sorry to say, were less political and more personal. Mr. Mustang had a grand vision for this country. I thought him a politician. I thought him insincere.

Now, I find myself moved by my conscience to join his fight. I am putting on the badge of the Progressive Alliance and saying, as he said, that we must look out for each other. I say, as he said, that this election is our chance- our chance for real and lasting change in this country. I will answer the call of Mr. Mustang’s trusted friend, Heymans Breda, and say: I will not give up on him. 

\-------------------------------------

 _The Central Times_ excerpt, editorial section.  
August 29th, 1922.

Central City has been quiet since the attack on candidate Roy Mustang. The week leading up to the August 24th shooting was marked by growing unrest. Three manufacturing plants were picketed over wage and hiring disputes. Military police intervention in an argument in the merchant district sparked a near-riot. There was an overall increase in vandalism and curfew-breaking. 

The shooting could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back. It could have provoked an all-out confrontation between the disgruntled elements of Central City, and the city’s military commanders. It could have been the beginning of a war or the end of democracy. Instead, it was the beginning of a pause- a moment of reflection. 

Today, this reporter saw a phrase painted on the side of a fence. This sort of petty defacement of city property is mundane, but the message it imparted was new. In orange paint, it said: _we will not give up._

This new rallying cry is a message of defiance, but also a message of hope. On one level, it is a message of support for a man who even now hangs between life and death. However, we argue that the phrase that is spreading across our city is more important than any single man. It is a message of hope for our nation, for the vision that Fuhrer Grumman had for our people. We do not know what the outcome of this election will be, or what the future will bring. But today we say, in solidarity with the people of Central City: we will not give up.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to mebh, for her advice and support in the writing of this.

Roy woke gasping and in pain so intense that he could hardly think. In the distance, there were people shouting, but not the person he needed. Suddenly the pain eased, and Roy fell into darkness.

\----------------------------

She was there when he woke again, her voice steady and calm. He couldn’t quite remember what she said, but he felt better knowing that she was there.

\----------------------------

When he really woke up at last- no longer drifting in and out, as it felt he had been forever- his throat was dry and everything hurt. He swallowed and blinked, struggling into consciousness. The first thing he registered was white, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the ceiling. He blinked again and turned, trying to catch sight of something other than white stucco. Riza was there. She was sitting at a small table next to his bed, doing something with a stack of papers. He lay there for a long moment, just watching her. She didn’t look happy. The lines of her body were tense, and there was a tightness around her eyes. She hadn’t been sleeping, Roy could tell. She looked tired, and her hair was a bit messy. 

“Riza,” he whispered, finally. 

She looked up, not as surprised as he had thought she might be. “Roy,” she said, setting aside the papers. “How are you feeling? They’ve been weaning you off the drugs. If the pain’s too much, though, we can up your dose again.”

Roy shook his head, too tired to deal with the question. “How long?” he asked.

“Three days,” she said. “You’ve been awake off and on, but you were fairly out of it.” She cocked her head, looking him over. “You seem more yourself now.”

He groaned. 

She smiled, just a little. It looked glorious on her. “Alright,” she amended. “More yourself if you’d just gone six rounds with Armstrong.”

He cocked an eyebrow.

She cocked one back. “ _Either_ Armstrong.”

“I have to meet with the press,” he said. “I can’t be out of the race.”

She frowned at him.

“I’ll be recovered from this in six months,” he got out. “But I’ll be Prime Minister for years.”

“I’ll see what we can do,” Riza allowed. “But I think you probably want to sleep again now.”

He just smiled. He didn’t want to shut his eyes. Somehow, it happened anyway.

\----------------------------------

Olivier kicked his bed. “Stop malingering,” she snapped.

Roy started awake. “Wha?” he mumbled. 

He looked up to see Olivier looking down at him. She sniffed. “It’s not as though you still have a bullet in you,” she pointed out. “It went straight through.”

“I lead a charmed life,” Roy said, and didn’t sit up. He wasn’t allowed to sit up on his own, not for a while. It turned out that getting shot through the belly was in many respects not unlike getting stabbed in the belly, so Roy knew the routine.

Olivier folded her arms. “The bullet probably couldn’t wait to get away from you,” she muttered.

Roy heard the ghost of a snicker, and he realized that Riza was still in the room, standing off to the side, her face set in a totally disingenuous look of disapproval. Roy smiled. “But you can’t stay away!” he told Olivier, cheerily. “It’s so sweet of you to come visit me in the hospital!” It was possible, he reflected, that the painkillers were affecting his judgment. 

“Shut up, Mustang,” she told him, sitting down. “I’m not here to watch you act like an idiot. We have things to discuss.”

Roy’s face went serious. “Riza-” he said. Without having to be asked, she came to his side and cranked up the bed. He really didn’t want to have a serious conversation with Olivier while flat on his back. “Thank you,” he told her, softly. She laid a hand gently on his cheek and then stepped back.

Olivier waited impassively while he got himself situated. “I was dubious about the public election,” she said, once he was finished. “Grumman was a liberal idiot, and so are you. But you’ve made things difficult for me.”

Roy smiled a little. “I didn’t shoot myself, you know,” he said.

“No,” Olivier said. “He did.” She pulled a file from the pocket of her coat, and handed it over. “There was a conspiracy in my staff.”

There was a picture- a handsome young man barely halfway through his twenties. Sniper training. He could have been Havoc, if Havoc had been assigned elsewhere. “Whose orders was he following?” Mustang asked, quietly. 

“General Magach,” Olivier said. “He was pushed up the ranks at the same time as you.”

There had been a power vacuum in the higher ranks of the military after the Promised Day; a lot of people had been promoted. Roy had heard Magach’s name, but he didn’t really know him. He frowned. “Why would he try to make me a martyr? It’s idiot politics.”

Riza made a strangled sort of sound. Olivier looked at her sharply. “ _Why did he shoot me_ ,” Riza explained. “That’s the question a sensible person would ask.”

Olivier shrugged. “It was your idea to let him become a politician,” she said.

“I’m serious,” Roy protested. “What was his plan?”

Riza was the one who answered. “If you had died,” she said, slowly, evenly, “It would have been different. They could have argued that it was too soon for the elections, with the changeover in Fuhrers. They would have said ‘next year’, and then they would have done their damnedest to make sure that ‘next year’ never happened. All ostensibly in your name.”

Olivier snorted. “I’ve got no patience with this kind of plotting,” she said. “I hadn’t made up my mind about the elections, but this has convinced me. I don’t want the military wasting its time with political matters. We have more important things to focus on.”

Roy breathed. Olivier’s position on the split between the civil government and the military had been a wild card; a factor he’d been unable to account for. “Is that what you came here to tell me?” he asked.

Olivier gave him one of her looks. “I came here to remind you that, whatever the outcome of this election, I’m the leader of Amestris. That will not change.”

Roy’s head spun. Olivier was _handing_ him power, telling him that they would be working together. She was also establishing her dominance, of course. But the reality was, there were many kinds of power that Olivier was oblivious to, or considered worthless. If Olivier thought that charge of Amestris’ guns made her the country’s leader, Roy wasn’t going to argue. He nodded. “Of course,” he said, his lips twisting in a smile. “I know my place.”

Olivier looked him over, slow and careful. “Make sure that you remember that,” she said. She turned on her heel and left.

Slowly, Roy broke out laughing. He was starting to feel a little hysterical, on top of the pain and fatigue.

“How... surprising,” Riza said, thoughtfully. “Roy, Walter Calhoun came to me today.”

“What?” Roy said, blinking.

“He’s going to declare his support for you and the party,” she said. “Your name is in the news, Roy. People are talking.”

Roy huffed out a laugh. “That’s- why now?” he asked. “He’s hoping I die, isn’t he? Then he could take over the party.”

“That’s probably not true,” Riza hedged. “Possibly.” She shook her head. “Your message is getting out. It’s on everyone’s lips. Even if you left the race now, you would have made a difference.”

Roy thought about what it would be like to quit; to retire and lead a quiet life in the country. He closed his eyes, and saw sand. “I have to see this through.”

Riza put a hand on his. “I know,” she said.

\------------------------------------------------

Roy pushed himself to standing, his right hand steady on the cane he was leaning on. Three steps, and he was at the podium. He curled his hands around the lectern, and only someone who knew what to look for would have noticed the way that he let it hold his weight up. Riza wished that she could forbid him from taxing himself this way. But he was right, and it was necessary.

“Hello,” he said, and his voice was strong and every bit his. Riza’s heart skipped in her chest for a moment. “I lived,” he said, simply.

The crowd exploded in applause. Roy waited patiently for them to quiet, grinning all the while. “We Amestrians are good at surviving,” he said. “And I promise that as long as you haven’t given up on me, I won’t give up either. As long as I still draw breath, I will fight for you.”

Riza could hear the crowd screaming its applause, chanting the slogan that they’d learned. She scanned the arena for threats before returning her attention to Roy’s too-pale skin. He’d promised he wouldn’t push himself too hard, but she knew well that promises of that kind were always lies.

Roy raised a hand and the crowd quieted. “In case there was any question: I am still your candidate for Prime Minister!” He smiled again, his face lit up with pleasure. Roy was born to be a politician, god help him. He turned to leave the podium, and then suddenly turned back. He leaned in close to the microphone. “Thank you,” he said, like he was talking to a friend. “You ended the violence here. If you can do that, what else do you think we can accomplish together?”

If the crowd had been wild before, it was mad now. Roy smiled, the shadows under his eyes too dark, and waved to the crowd. “Thank you, and I’ll see you on election day!”

He leaned heavily on his cane as he walked off the stage. Once he was safely off, Riza breathed a sigh of relief. She snapped the release on her rifle scope, and packed her weapon quickly away. If she hurried, she could get to the back door before he did.


	15. Chapter 15

October 16th, 1922

CENTRAL CITY-- With an 8-point margin in the popular vote, Mr. Roy Mustang (Progressive Alliance for Amestris) was elected yesterday as the Prime Minister of the Fuhrer of Amestris. Mr. Mustang is the first elected Prime Minister since 1798, and the first Prime Minister since 1815. Furthermore, with the handover of civil authority orchestrated by the late Fuhrer Grumman, Mr. Mustang is now the highest official of the civil government.

The ascension of Mr. Mustang’s Progressive Alliance represents the groundswell of popular support for democratization and change in the government. Following the August 24th attack in which Mr. Mustang was shot by a member of the military, public sentiment for reform has grown. Mr. Mustang and the Progressive Alliance have become symbols of the reform movement.

“We face enormous challenges, both political and economic,” Mr. Mustang said, speaking to a crowd outside the parliament building. “My party and I promise, as we have always promised, that we will do everything in our power to work to overcome them, for the good of Amestris. We promise, as we have always promised, that we will not give up. I know that you won’t.”

\--------------------------------------------------

HAWKEYE--MUSTANG

Miss Riza Hawkeye and Mr. Roy Mustang were married November 1st, 1922 in a private ceremony in Resembool. Mr. Mustang was attended by his chief of staff, Mr. Heymans Breda, and his personal secretary, Mr. Jean Havoc. Miss Hawkeye was attended by her former colleagues, Mrs. Rebecca Catalina and Captain Maria Ross. The ceremony was followed by an open reception.


	16. A Wedding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should be considered an epilogue rather than a chapter proper. I got several comments after this was finished that readers wanted to see the wedding, and probably Election Night, too. 
> 
> I picked up the prompt to write a Royai wedding for fmagiftexchange, and this is what I did. Note that I _still_ didn't quite write the wedding. :)

There was a knock on the door. “Flower delivery!” a voice said from the other side. It was high-pitched, silly, and instantly recognizable. “Mustang Flowers, for all your floral needs!”

“Come in, Roy,” Riza said, sighing. 

The door opened, and Roy poked his head in, a stupid grin plastered on his face and a bouquet in his hands.

Rebecca glared him, pointing her curling iron at his chest. “You better not think you’re getting near my makeup job, lover boy,” she said, her eyes narrowed. 

Roy did his best to look innocent.

Riza shook her head. “You’d better give us a minute,” she said, smiling.

Rebecca sighed dramatically. “Fine.” She grinned at Riza as she sailed out of the room. 

The door shut, leaving the two of them alone. Riza adjusted her skirts almost self-consciously.

Roy stepped closer. “You look...” he started. 

Riza turned and looked at herself in the mirror. The dress was conservative and a little old-fashioned; it had to be, to cover her back. Still, it was both expensive and flattering. This wedding was a show. Not a sham, of course. But they had to make sure that appearances were satisfied. Politics.

When she looked up at Roy, though, she could see that politics couldn’t be further from his mind. His head was tilted just slightly, and his lips curved up in that ironic smile that he always did when he was moved by something but was trying to cover it up.

She stood. “Your hair looks ridiculous,” she said, softly. She reached a hand up, smoothing errant locks back against his head. Half of his bangs were trying to escape.

He smiled. “No amount of pomade can tame the beast,” he said, brushing her hand with his fingertips. The press think I do the rakish look on purpose, but really, I have no choice.”

She dropped her hand to his cheek, curling it back around his ear. He closed his eyes and leaned in to her touch. “Riza,” he whispered, smiling.

The wedding didn’t matter, Riza thought. It was all for show. Everything that mattered between them had been said years ago.

Roy opened his eyes and took her hand in his, bringing it to his lips. “Your flowers,” he said. “Gracia made me promise.”

Riza reached out and took the bouquet from him. “Mission accomplished,” she said. “You’d better send Rebecca back in.”

He smiled and turned to leave. Then he hesitated, looking back at her with his dark eyes unreadable.

“Roy,” Riza said. She reached up, grabbed his tie, and pulled him down for a kiss. When they separated, her lipstick was smeared across his lips and cheek. “There,” she said. “Your reputation remains intact.”

He grinned. “I’ll see you out there, Hawkeye,” he said, and slipped out the way he came in.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Elections](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206907) by [ironyman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironyman/pseuds/ironyman)




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